


A Toast To Whiskey

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Compliant, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Lush, Mentions of Suicide, Peter is mentioned and has one line, Reader-Insert, Rogers/Barnes Christmas, She/her pronouns for reader, Stark Tower, Very briefly mentioned in conversation are Sam/Pepper/Wanda/Peggy/Sharon, brief mention of Nazis, bubble tea, friendship with Steve, infinity war and endgame NEVER HAPPENED, medium level discussion of Bucky's trauma, mental health, no suicide or attempts scenes!, non-specific mentions of suicide, other than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-01-29 23:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: You work in an old bar hidden away from the modern world. It's almost charming, but not quite. That's probably why Bucky likes it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Y/N, James "Bucky" Barnes/You
Comments: 22
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my third Bucky/Reader fic. I'd love for ya to suss the others out, and I've just started a Tumblr dedicated to all the best Bucky/Reader fics I can find. Visit me at buckyreaderrecs.tumblr.com!

There were a lot of things in the dusty, old bar that made the man's jaw clench in annoyance, distaste, or anger. You were compiling a list of these things, doing your best to minimise their occurrences. There was one you couldn't avoid though, and it was almost amusing that it bothered him at all. Each time someone ordered a drink - beer, cocktail, shot, whatever - a clean glass was given. The man didn't like it. Was it not like that in his time? 

If James Buchanan Barnes thought he'd gone unnoticed in the hole-in-the-wall bar you worked at, he was mistaken. Not entirely, to be fair; the baseball cap and quiet stopped the other patrons from even giving him a second glance. 'Patrons' might have been too civilised of a word to call them. They were old, sickly, local men that had been drinking the same beer from those same taps forever. Harmless, mostly. Unobservant, entirely. Not you though. The first day Bucky walked in and taken a barstool on the very corner, closest to the door, you knew exactly who he was. 

Like a lot of people that came and went from the establishment, Bucky's seeking of anonymity was granted. You pretended to not recognise him. You were kind to him, a little more gentle than you were to others, but mostly just a good bartender. And in time, you grew accustomed to the charade. He came in a couple of afternoons a week, but never during the nights when it would be busy. Eventually, he even started to speak more than a couple words to you. 

"New cap?" you greeted Bucky with a grin, putting the only drink he ever ordered down in front of him. 

Bucky wrapped his right hand around the glass of whiskey. He glanced at you, smiled and shrugged. 

"Speaking of new, can I ask you something?" you asked.

The expression on Bucky's face was guarded, but definitely one of concern. You realised you should have just asked, rather than let his mind spiral. 

"What’s your problem with clean glasses?" 

He looked surprised. Surprised was an experience Bucky wasn't particularly used to or fond of. He wouldn't hold it against you though. 

"How do ya know I got a problem?" he asked back, genuinely curious. 

Shrugging, you looked around casually. "Guess I notice a lot of things about people," 

"Right," he said slowly, knowingly. "I don't know… Just seems wasteful… Is it the law?" 

"That we have to use clean glasses?" you asked with a laugh. "I don't know… probably not. I mean, it's more hygienic. Probably makes the drink taste cleaner or whatever. Board of Health might have a problem with us if we didn't… Not that I've seen one of them in here in years." 

Bucky picked up his glass and finished the whiskey. "Fill her up," he quipped. He'd made a half-joke, and you appreciated the effort. 

"Yes, sir. Lemme know if you, you know, what anything else," you told him, topping him up, knocking your knuckles on the bar top, and walking away. 

…

Bucky Barnes certainly wasn't the most chatty person you'd met. It was better to ask questions if you wanted to pass time with conversations. Easy conversation was one of your special skills, being a bartender and all. However, it was incredibly difficult to do this when you were purposefully avoiding topics that would put Bucky in a position to have to, you know, admit his identity and all that. So, things stayed superficial. 

No, Bucky didn't watch the game. 

Yes, the weather's been _insane_. 

No, he doesn't want any nut mix. 

Okay, maybe yes to pretzels. 

Yes, he can see your hair has changed colour. 

_**Yes,**_ he likes it. 

For as long as it had taken to get to the point of superficial conversation, it didn't take any time at all to run out of things to say. As it turned out, neither you nor Bucky had lived, or were living, shallow enough lives to sustain it. There were questions you were begging to ask, and if he was honest with himself, Bucky was kinda just counting down until you finally spoke up.

…

"So, I got a question," 

"Mmm. You have a lot of questions," Bucky said, smirking then taking another sip of his whisky. 

"You could ask me somethin' if you want a change of pace, pal." 

It was a joke. Just banter. But a dark expression flashes across Bucky's face for only a split second. You didn't catch it. 

"What's your question, Y/N?" 

He knew your name? 

Of course he knew your name. He was The Winter fucking Soldier. He probably knew everything about everyone that worked and frequented the bar. How had you not thought of that before? Suddenly, it seemed risky to ask what you had planned to. 

Bucky watched you hesitate. He sighed and looked around at the empty room. It was a Monday afternoon and it was just before the regulars showed up to knock beer bottles together and catcall you across the bar. It was just you and him. 

"Ask," he said softly, taking his cap off and setting it down on the barstool next to him. You watched Bucky run his hands through his hair, tucking some of it behind his ear. 

"Why do you drink whiskey?"

Bucky laughed. Like, a proper heartfelt laugh. "What?" he said, nose still scrunched up in amusement. 

"What?" 

"Why do I drink whiskey?" he repeated. 

"Yeah… I mean… It's disgusting… and, like, you… can't get drunk, right?" 

There it was. You did it. Admitted you knew him. Which he figured out. So none of what was happening was really a big deal. But it sure as fuck felt like it. 

"Right. I can’t- Well, I can, but it takes a lot," 

"Asgardian mead a lot?" 

Bucky grinned and tipped his glass towards you. "How do you know about Asgardian mead?" 

You snorted. "Everyone does. Everyone knows everything these days," 

"That's what we want you to think," he said, not skipping a beat. 

It made you laugh. It was already better talking to him without false pretences. "So, whisky?" 

"Ah… Guess it's that everything's different now… An' that's mostly good. But… You know." 

No. No, you didn't know. How could you even begin to understand? "Yeah," you said, your voice far more quiet than you meant it to be. 

"Whiskey's still whiskey," 

"It tastes the same?" you asked. 

"Almost. Not exactly. Close enough," 

"Makes sense… But why here? S'not like this bar been here since the 40s or anything." 

Bucky was visibly trying not to smile. Or make eye contact. "Ah… Not sure how to answer that without… offending ya," 

"Huh? ... Oh, I don't own the joint or anything," 

"You don't?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. 

"No? You think I did? Why?"

"You're…" but he shrugged, still guarded. "I don't know," he lied. "But, ah, I was just lookin' for somewhere…" 

"Pretty much stuck in the 40s or thereabouts?" 

He nodded, smiling. "But without the Nazis," 

"Mmm… I mean… Have you watched the news lately?" you very quickly said. 

"I try to avoid it," he admitted solemnly. 

As people started to wander in, the conversation waned. Bucky watched you serve cold beer and pour bags of crisps into bowls. He listened to the worst songs being picked on the jukebox and he sat truly shocked you weren't even at least the daughter of the owner. Despite what you may have thought, he hadn't bothered to investigate you at all and finding his assumptions to be wrong was unsettling. 

See, Bucky was a little bit smitten with you. He thought you were smart and sassy and timelessly beautiful. You were the ultimate perk of randomly picking this as his hideaway from the world. But, he figured you were only here because it was a family business. Why was someone smart, sassy and beautiful working strange hours at a shitty bar? 

It was hard to say which of you was more curious about the other. 

…

Something about what Bucky said had stuck in your head. Whiskey, his drink of choice, was the closest thing to his own time he could find. You could do better than that though. 

About a year into working at the bar, you were finally allowed to venture into the cellar to clean it up. There were boxes of shit from forever ago down there and you just wanted it sorted, gone, and the space put to better use. Most of what lived beneath the floor was trash, but every hour or so you'd find something cool. A few vintage beer signs. Empty bottles of collector edition Coke. That kind of stuff. But, there was one thing you had found that you now wanted to stumble across again. 

Nobody could remember where it had got to. 

It took two days of searching to find it. 

The bottle of whiskey was shoved under a bunch of paperwork in the office's bottom drawer desk. Not exactly where you'd store something worth a lot of money, but hey - the barely-there owners of the bar were eccentric, to put it nicely. You didn't recognise the brewing company on the peeling label, but that wasn't the point. The date on the bottle quite clearly read 1940. 

When Bucky took his usual spot that afternoon, you bounced over to him with a grin on your face. He looked up at you, keeping his cap. 

"Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm so happy?" you said, elbows on the bar and head in your hands. 

Bucky smiled a little. He seemed sad. Sadder than usual. Good timing. 

"Why are you so happy?" 

"'Cause I found something that's gonna make you real fuckin' happy. Check this out!" 

You produced the bottle from where you had it stashed under the bar and handed it to Bucky. 

Bucky's lips parted slightly and his eyes went all glossy. He read the label carefully, probably trying to place the brand you couldn't. He handled it so carefully, even more than you in your fear of dropping it. 

"This is real," he finally said. 

"Yeah. I found it in the basement ages ago and just remembered it. 1940, so I figure it's like, first or second batch after Prohibition, yeah?" 

Bucky nods. "I guess…" he replied, smiling, remembering Prohibition. "And before all the distilleries had to stop again," 

"For what?" you asked. 

"The war," he said so matter-of-factly that it hurt a little. He looked up then, saw your confusion. "Dunno if it was law or if they just did it, but most places stopped making drinking alcohol and started making stuff to help win the war. And ah, whiskey stopped being made because it took up too much crops. I don't know. Something like that." 

Something like that. Like he hadn't lived history. 

"I didn’t know that. That's…" Not 'cool.' "That makes sense… Anyway. Open it," you ordered, getting out two clean glasses. 

Bucky put the bottle on the bar and looked at you seriously. "Y/N, that's gotta be worth… a lot… Can't open it for no reason," 

"Nobody here cares about it. And besides, it's not really no reason, is it?" He didn't move or say anything. "Bucky." He flinched at his name, glanced around to make sure nobody heard. They hadn't. "I think you kinda earned this one, yeah? Now do me the honours." 

Why was everyone in Bucky's life so goddamn stubborn? 

He sighed and opened the bottle silently. You nodded in encouragement, letting him pour. 

"A toast," you posed, holding your glass up. Bucky mimicked your action. "A toast to…" Everything in your head sounded either very cliché or very sad. 

"Whiskey," Bucky finished. 

"Whiskey," you agreed. 

Drinking at the same time, Bucky swallowed in two gulps while you struggled with a sip. 

"Jesus fucking Christ it tastes like cat piss now and it did then," you whined, pouring the liquid left in your glass into Bucky's. He laughed at you. 

After drinking that down quickly, Bucky reached across the bar and took your hand in his. "Thank you, Y/N. Really." 

A toast to finding things that make us less homesick. 

… 

After the 1940 whiskey, Bucky came in more regularly. He stayed longer, despite the place filling with people. He even began to talk to the other regulars when they sat at the bar and argued with you about politics, the news, and kids these days. You watched him play devil's advocate, siding with the old men, sarcastically poking fun at you with a quick comment every now and then. 

You weren't sure when it happened, but you realised Bucky had grown to be _comfortable_ in the space. And there was something about that that made you ridiculously happy. Like, sunbeams bouncing around on the inside of you making you all hot and tingly and full of joy whenever he was there kind of happy. It was gross. 

Bucky would walk in, sit, place his cap down and grin at you with his cute little teeth and sparkly blue eyes. It made your day without exception, and you started to notice more little things about him and how they made you feel. When he hooked his hand behind his ear it would make your stomach flip. 

One time, when he was telling you a story about carnival rides and baby Steve throwing up, a loose strand of hair fell across his face and you immediately and unconsciously leant across the bar and folded it gently behind his ear for him. Bucky froze, and you went to apologise, but he spoke first. "Thanks," he said softly, with more meaning than the situation called for, then continued on with his story. 

It was like that for just over a month. Then he stopped coming in. There was nothing in his final visit to indicate he wasn't coming back. Bucky just disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds Buck, then you. 
> 
> Lush! Bucky and a cat! Christmas! Angst! Domestic Bucky! Befriending Steve! Recovering Buck! Mutual pining! What doesn't this fic have?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I thought of this fic, I split it into two parts that were meant to be equal. Part one was 2,325 words. This one is 10,093. I am sorry. Lol. 
> 
> A big warning for discussions of suicide (no explicit scene of it though), and Bucky's trauma (medium level). 
> 
> Shout out to the following people for brainstorming and inspiration (all Tumblr urls): megthemewlingquim, browngirlmagic, pinnedandneedled, cosmicbreathe, headmistressofbitchcraft, and valkyriesryde.
> 
> Find me, my fics, and more Bucky x Reader fic recommendations on Tumblr at buckyreaderrecs.tumblr.com.

To say you missed Bucky's presence was an understatement. It was kind of remarkable, actually. Considering how quiet he was, how he mostly just sat, it seemed strange to miss him so deeply, but that you did. He'd been in your life for months. To have him suddenly not there was a lesson in soft brutality. Others noticed too. 

"Miss ya boyfriend there, missy?" the regulars teased. 

"Where'd that mystery man get to then?" co-workers asked. 

When two weeks Bucky-less came and went, you finally resigned to the fact that maybe you'd just have to let it go. You'd have to stop wondering if The Avengers had a phone number. You'd have to stop taking detours wherever you were going just to pass Stark Tower in the hopes you'd cross paths with Bucky. You'd just have to… stop. 

Then the most surreal thing happened. Captain _fucking_ America walked through the bar's door. 

It was around midday on a Friday. You'd just opened up and were still pulling chairs from the tabletops from where they rested overnight. A few regulars were sat at the bar, waiting for their table to be set up over by the television screen. They paid no mind to Steve Rogers as he stepped into the dimly lit room, the streams of light he briefly let in highlighting the dust particles in the air. 

When you saw him, your stomach dropped and your heart jumped out of your mouth. As Steve approached, you stumbled backwards, recollections of all bad news delivered before flashing in your mind. 

_Please, no._

"Hi. Are you Y/N?" he asked. When you managed to nod your head, he continued, his voice calm. "I'm-" 

"I know. Is he okay?" you interrupted. 

Steve had been interrupted many times. He was used to it. Another thing he was unfortunately accustomed to was giving people bad news. 

"Yes. We’ve found him-"

"He was missing?!" 

The volume of your voice drew attention from the people at the bar. "You right there, Y/N?" one of them asked. 

"Yeah, yeah, Dave. Thanks. I'm alright." 

Looking back to Steve, you caught the last split second of a smirk being willed off his face. "Y/N," Steve started. "Buck doesn't… doesn't know I know about you. But…"

"Where is he?" 

"He's fine. He's at the Tower," he answered, his hands coming up in a defensive position. "Look, Y/N. I think he needs a friend…" 

"What are you?" you snapped, suddenly blaming Steve for _whatever_ had happened. 

There was silence while you watched each other, working each other out.

Steve had not purposefully set out to spy on Bucky, or anything of that nature. In passing Peter Parker had said, "Mr. Rogers Captain Rogers Sir," and told him how he thought it was super cool that Bucky Barnes' local pub was across the road from a place Peter sometimes bought bubble tea from. It sparked curiosity that Steve ignored for as long as he could. But it got the better of him. 

"I'm his best friend. But you've been given me a run for my money for a while. He spends more time in here than with the rest of us combined." 

You thought about that for a second. Fuck, that was sad. "That means he spends a lot of time alone," 

"Yeah… Think that's been the problem…" Steve replied slowly. 

Out of nowhere, Steve's composure changed. In a motion too fast for you to track, he pulled a chair off a table and sat. His elbows were pressed into his thighs and his head was in his hands. He groaned a little, then sat up straight, looking right at you. 

"Buck… he… he does it sometimes. Disappears for a few days. No communication. He's always come back though. And it's only ever been a for a few days… This time, after a week we got worried…" 

"You found him though," you pressed, annoyed at the pace of Steve's story. 

"We found him. He wasn't in good shape, Y/N. I don't think…"

When Steve had walked in, you thought that something had happened to Bucky on a mission or something like that. The worst case scenario, of which you had only entertained for the shortest of times, was that Hydra had been lurking in the shadows, waiting. 

Another possibility became painfully apparent at the end of Steve's trailed off sentence. Somehow, the thought of it hurt more than all the others. 

Steve could see it on your face you knew what he was trying to say. You needed to hear it though. It was the only way it could be real. 

"He wasn't planning on coming back." 

Bucky wasn't planning on running away either. It was the metaphorical end of the line for him. Like so many times before, Bucky Barnes had forgotten to factor in Steve bloody Rogers. Saved by his best friend yet again, Bucky had woke up in a clinically clean room in Stark Tower. If he thought it was hard to get drunk, trying to kill himself was even harder. 

You knew there was no comparing your friendship with Bucky to Steve's. There hadn't been a friendship in the history of humankind that could compare. Making Steve say it out loud wasn't kind, but it wasn't unnecessary cruelty either.

"Will you come see him?" 

… 

You thought you'd known _weird_. Turns out, nope. Being escorted into Stark Tower by Steve Rogers was weird. Being full body scanned by technology you couldn't begin to comprehend was weird. Feeling so, so much about someone you barely knew was weird. 

All the weird became secondary to a rushing wave of relief at seeing Bucky Barnes. The wave met a tall, unmoveable wall very quickly. Bucky wasn't awake. Steve sat in a chair next to Bucky's bed and motioned for you to take the one on the other side. 

Bucky was pale, lips chapped and hair stringy. Someone cared for him though. Although messy, the hair was tied back in a bun. There was a tube of chapstick sitting on the bedside table. 

The sheet was pulled up under his arms. He was in a thin, white singlet. You'd never seen his vibranium arm; he'd always been in jackets in the bar. He'd always worn gloves, even after it was apparent you knew who he was. The scars on his body were confronting, but you had to file that away for a later day. 

"Fuck," you finally said on a breath out. 

Steve nodded in deep agreement. 

"He's gonna wake up." You'd meant it as a statement but it definitely curved up too much at the end. 

"He will," Steve confirmed. "He's lost a lot of blood… They tried blood transfusions but his body… The serum in him is too unstable. It made him worse. We just have to wait. He'll heal himself," 

"Okay," you said softly as you shuffled the chair closer to the bed. 

As you took Bucky's hand in yours, you thought what all people do when they're bedside like that. _Can they hear me? Do they know I'm here?_ You rubbed gentle circles across his skin with your thumb. 

For a while, Steve was still, then he too dragged his chair across the floor. He got as close to the bed as he could, then folded an arm on the mattress and rested his head. You watched him look up at his best friend. Steve reached out with his free hand and gently stroked Bucky's cheek once, then settled in for the wait. 

…

Sleep was uneasy, but it came. When you uncurled your body from the chair, you were alone with Bucky. He hadn't moved, hadn't dreamed. He wasn't really asleep but in some sort of super soldier serum limbo that you hoped to God wasn't a form of Hell. 

It was only about ten minutes before Steve arrived back in the room. He came bearing gifts - coffee and a doughnut. 

"Did you think he was going to wake up, like, when I got here?" you asked. 

Steve shrugged. He'd changed clothes at some point while you slept. Grey track pants and a white t-shirt. Comfy. Casual. Not very Captain America but you guessed, pretty Steve Rogers. 

"No. Yes. I don't know… We don't know when he'll wake up… I just thought he'd want to see you," 

"Do you think he comes and proper hangs out with me? Because he doesn't. He just kinda…" 

"I know. Buck's never been that much of a talker. Even before. Doesn't stop him from being charming," Steve said. 

"No… it doesn't. Guess he wouldn't come to see us if he didn't wanna," you reasoned, thinking about the awkward prospect of Bucky waking up and asking why the bartender was there. 

"He wouldn't, no," Steve agreed. 

Silence was comfortable with Steve, which was a blessing because you sat watching the television with him for a couple of hours. That's when you really took in the room beyond Bucky and the bed. It was a strange mix of hospital and home. 

When you had arrived earlier, the elevator delivered you to a sweeping hallway. It didn't give much away in terms of what the function of the floor was. Stark Tower was multi-purpose. _Very_ multi-purpose. It was head office to an ever-growing business. It was science and technology laboratories. It was home base for The Avengers. Those were the things the public knew the building did. 

On the list of suspected functions included primary home of Tony Stark. Correct, although he had many other properties. Pepper was trying to sell some without Tony knowing. The Tower had to house weapons too, as the headquarters of The Avengers. Correct. Definitely in the upper limit of what was legal. Where did all The Avengers live? Where did the ones from space stay when on Earth? Theory was the Tower. Correct. Many, but not all, superheroes affiliated had very large, very beautiful private spaces in the Tower. I surely had to have its own medical wing. Incorrect. It wasn't a wing.

Stark Tower had its own dedicated floor for bio and med. Cutting edge research. Direct and tailored medical support. And that's where you had found yourself. A hospital room, spectacularly disguised as comfortable. Regardless of the armchairs by Bucky's bed and the huge flat screen, it wouldn't ever not smell like bleach. 

By mid-morning, it became apparent that this wasn't Sleeping Beauty and Bucky wasn't going to wake up just because you were there with all your true... whatever.

"What's the plan?" you asked. 

Steve sighed hard, stood from the chair and stretched. Your attention stayed on Bucky, but when Steve failed to answer, your eyes flicked to him. He seemed very agitated by not knowing what to do. He couldn't Captain America his way out of this one. 

"You're welcome to stay. There's a room next door. We can take shifts… Or if you want to head home I can call when he wakes…" 

"I'll stay," you decided quickly. Nothing else seemed as important.

… 

Two days later, you'd gotten more sleep than you would have predicted. The room next door to Bucky's was another designed for the injured, but it doubled as a hotel room just as well. The bed was comfortable and nobody disturbed you when it was your turn to rest. You and Steve shared takeaway and swapped stories. It was nice to find a real human beneath the public image. 

Steve could see why Bucky had continued to gravitate back towards you. You made him feel normal. And he almost came to enjoy the routine you and he had fallen into, keeping watch of Bucky. Then, as you were throwing grapes across the room, aiming for Steve's mouth, you both heard him. 

Bucky mumbled a very groggy, "Fuck," as his eyes adjusted to the light. 

"Buck?" Steve called, appearing at the bedside in a second. 

You walked over more slowly, carefully. What if he did think it was strange you were there? 

Bucky tried to move, but Steve put his arm across him. "Nope, Pal. Stay right there," 

"Lemme up, Steve," Bucky said, still groggy. 

Steve folded, moving away so Bucky could sit up. He rubbed his face, his unshaved jawline. You almost thought he hadn't noticed you, but then, "How long have ya been spying on me then?" 

Bucky looked at Steve, raised his eyebrows. 

Neither you nor Steve had ever been in this specific situation before. No script for what someone waking from a suicide attempt should do or say. But you were both shocked by Bucky's… normality. He'd just sat up like it was another day. Not like he'd run away, hurt himself, never said goodbye. 

"What the absolute fuck!" Steve whispered. Was it to himself or to Bucky? You were unsure. Bucky just stared at him, expressionless. "That's not- How could- Jesus, Buck. What were you thinking?" 

You cringed, knowing it was the wrong thing for Steve to say. 

"What was I thinking?" Bucky repeated. 

There was a second of silence. Two. Then Bucky just ripped the covers off, swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He looked down at himself, then up at you. It was the first eye contact you'd had since he woke, and it caught the breath in your lungs and swallowed it up. 

"Hey, darlin'," he greeted softly. He'd never called you that before. Before you knew it, he'd closed the space between you and had pressed a kiss to your cheek. "Sorry for all the fuss," 

"Ahh…" you started to say, but he was already walking away. 

"Bucky!" Steve yelled, following him through the door. "Where are you going? We need to talk," he urged. 

Feeling very out of place, you just followed Steve, hoping sticking close to him would lead you back to comfort. 

"Steve, look," Bucky said, spinning on his heels. "I know, alright… I know… But I need… I can't be here. This place is drivin' me crazy… And I'm already ten different types of that," 

"Where are you going to go?" Steve asked, his voice smaller and sadder than it had just been. 

Bucky shrugged casually, almost comically. 

"You scared the shit out of me," 

"Not the first, won't be the last," Bucky joked, deflected. 

"It could have been." 

That made Bucky shut up. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Steve. 

"But it wasn't. Someone needs to stick around to look after your stupid ass," Bucky said. 

"Then stick around." 

If you felt out of place before… Watching the two men hug then step away from each other, you could feel the weight of their history in the air. It was oppressive and you were honestly in awe. Then, before you knew you were even speaking, you just squeaked out, "You can stay with me." 

… 

Bucky had taken you up on the offer like he wasn't an ex-prisoner of war with decades of trauma just sitting below the surface of his crumbling composure. He'd disappeared upstairs to change and grab a bag or two, leaving you and Steve standing in utter shock. 

"Are you okay?" you asked as soon as Bucky was gone. 

"I… Christ, I don't know, Y/N. That wasn't normal was it?" 

You laughed then. "I don't fucking know. Do you mean for someone who just… or for him? 'Cause you're meant to the expert," 

"Not anymore apparently," Steve said, more hurt than bitter. 

"I'll… try to…" You were going to say 'look after him' but the concept of looking after Bucky Barnes seemed ridiculous. Steve had kinda just proven that. 

Steve looked defeated, so you did the only humanly right thing to do. You pulled him into a hug. He welcomed it. 

"Thought when we brought him home he'd be alright," Steve mumbled into you. "Stupid," 

"Not stupid. Just hopeful. I… Look, I don't know what…" 

"I know. Sorry. Sorry, Y/N. I've just pulled you into all this when you were just-"

"No, no. It's okay. I… I'm glad I'm here. He can come stay with me. Make a plan or something. Does he have a doctor or anything?" 

The enormity of the situation dawned on you both then. The complexity of it stunning you into silence. Bucky had gone through abject horror and hell and he'd survived. His body had been stitched and sewn back together. His brain had been rewired, given back to him. But now what? Nobody had really thought of that. 

… 

Bucky was back to his cap-wearing, strong and silent type on the way over to your apartment. Through the doors, he dropped his bags and looked around. 

"I'll make some tea," you said quietly, leaving him to introduce himself to the space. 

Your apartment was on the third floor of a pretty old block of units. The space was small. Sometimes it was too small for just one bartender… And yet, Bucky didn't seem too big for the space. From the kitchenette you watched him walk from the front door across the open-plan space. He glanced at the bed, probably wondering where exactly you planned on keeping him. Bucky stood at the window, surveying the view. 

"How do you take your tea?" you asked. 

"However," he replied. 

Frowning, you shook your head. "That's… not… What do you mean?" 

Bucky turned, smiled, almost confused at your confusion. "Not picky," 

"Everyone has a preference." 

He just shrugged. 

"No… Come here. Sit down," you ordered. 

Bucky smirked. He considered it for a second, then strode over to the kitchenette and sat at the small breakfast bar. 

"Take your fucking cap off. This is your home now so you can drop the weird mysterious guy thing," you told him, putting four mugs out on the bar. 

Bucky chuckled and obeyed. "Didn't Steve tell ya to be gentle with me or somethin'? Don't cha know I'm all messed up?" 

You could hear it in his voice that he was taking the piss. 

"There he is," you said, smiling. "Alright. I'm gonna make four teas, alright? You're gonna try them all and you'll know which you like best," 

"Don't think it matters, Y/N. It's just tea," 

"It's not. It's not just tea. It's… it's about preference. You can have things the way you want." 

Bucky watched you pour the boiled water, brew the teas. 

"I don't want someone else tryna fix me," he said seriously. 

You pushed milk and sugar towards him. "If Captain America can't fix you, I don't think anybody can." 

Bucky took the mug and held both palms to it. You wondered if he could feel the warmth in his left. (He could.)

"Then why am I here?" he asked, going to sip the tea. 

You paused, trying to think of a good answer to that question. 

Thinking. 

Thinking. 

"I… don't know… One minute you're sitting at my bar drinking whiskey. Next minute you're… in my house drinking tea… I have no fucking idea how this happened." 

He made a face, pushing the mug back across the table. You swapped it for milk no sugar. 

"It's a bad idea. Me being here." 

Bucky tasted the tea and let you swap it again. No milk no sugar. 

"Then why are you here?" 

"Ain't that what I just asked you?" he quipped. 

No milk sugar. And an unimpressed look that made him laugh. 

"I'm here because since I've been stateside I've just wanted to… I don't know. Rest. Take a fuckin' second. Feel normal… First time I've felt normal was in your bar drinkin' your whiskey,"

"…What about my tea?"

"Also works… Milk and no sugar." 

… 

Bucky didn't make any jokes about how tiny your place was. After tea, small talk, you handed him the television remote, threw him a blanket and told him to make himself at home. You both went about your nights individually, but side by side. After all the tension of Stark Tower, it was overwhelmingly relaxing. There wasn't a moment where you asked yourself if it was stupid to let someone as dangerous as Bucky Barnes into your home. There wasn't a moment of reconsideration. It was just… easy from the first night. 

"Buck, that sofa folds out bigger," you told him, climbing into your bed after showering and getting into P.J.s in the bathroom. 

Bucky, who was still in the jeans and henley shirt he'd changed into at the Tower, glanced over. "You going to bed?" He sounded scandalised. 

"Sorry, Jesus. Some of us haven't been asleep for days." 

Bucky laughed. "Brave joke, darlin'." 

There it was again, that nickname. Was it chosen or did it slip out when he wasn't watching his words? 

In the morning, it was like you'd spoken in your sleep, conversed with each other and decided on a routine. Bucky was standing in the kitchenette when you woke. He'd clearly been for a run; his headphones hanging around his neck and his runners still on his feet. He was cooking. 

"Hey," he greeted when you made your way over, sitting down. "Wow. Can see why you work at a bar. Not a morning person." 

Your morning expression was one part deep confusion about not still being asleep, and one part anger about not still being asleep. Bucky kinda loved it. 

As you ate bacon and eggs with him, you tried to process how you got to that point. It seemed like a fruitless task. Up until Bucky, your life was… well, it was easy to explain. Doing A resulted in B happening. A simple story. Then, Bucky. Doing A resulted in nothing, and suddenly Z was happening out of nowhere. Like, Jesus Christ, stuff like that just didn't happen. But the coffee was really truly being poured and Bucky was really truly just… there. 

… 

You went back to work quickly; you'd used up too many leave days sitting by Bucky's hospital bed. Picking up a couple of extra shifts in that first week Bucky was at yours, you hardly had time to really talk to him. He was a ghost in your home for all intents and purpose. It worried you. Each time you left the apartment, you'd try to find a new way of checking he was okay, that he'd be there when you got back. 

_"Are you doing anything today?" _

_"Seeing Steve later?" _

_"Not planning on trying to hurt yourself today?" _

Bucky recognised the concern in your voice. It was the same tone he used to take with Steve before everything happened. It was the same tone Steve used on him now. Goddamn those turning tables. He did his best to be reassuring without lying to you. He felt he owed you that much, at the very least.

What else did he have to offer though? 

That's when it started. Bucky Barnes turned into your bodyguard, personal chef, housekeeper, and handyman. When you realised it was part of him trying to cope, settle in, be okay, you just let him do it. You'd never won any fights to try to stop him. And, you kinda liked it. 

He'd be lingering out the front of the bar when you locked up. Bucky would walk you the two streets home, mumbling "Can't believe you do this alone," the whole way. If he was early for pick up, he'd come in and put chairs on tables. He mopped once. The task was completed with frightening efficiency.

By the end of the week, the apartment was spotless. What did the Winter Soldier look like holding a feather duster? Had he read the spines of all the books on the shelves? Was the television on while he cleaned, or was he a music kind of guy? You could have sworn you saw him narrow your eyes when you left an empty dish on the coffee table. 

"You went food shopping?" you asked stupidly one morning, waking up to the sound of Bucky unpacking groceries. He raised an eyebrow, went to provide sass, but you put a hand up. "Don't! Just… make me some coffee, please." 

As he placed the mug on your bedside table, he gently ruffled your hair - the only part of you poking out from under the covers. "Got work?" he asked.

"Yeah. Closing. Don't start till 7," you answered, emerging into the daylight of the morning… Of the almost-afternoon, you learnt as you checked your phone. "What you got planned?"

"Same thing I've been doing all week, Y/N." 

He was back in the kitchenette, folding plastic bags neatly into a pile. 

"There's a bag under the sink full of other bags. Don't need to fold them," you told him. He looked up at you; when would you stop over-explaining things, he wondered. "It's like, a thing everyone has. The bag of other bags. And a messy Tupperware cupboard," 

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked, a little amused. 

"_No!_ I just woke up and it's too bright and you're folding plastic bags. Are you okay?" 

Bucky shrugged. He did that a lot, sometimes accompanied by a twitch of a lip curl. Sassy bastard. 

"So when you say 'same thing you've been doing all week,' you mean clean and watch T.V.?" you asked, sitting up and plumping a pillow to act as a headboard. Bucky waited until you'd picked up the coffee and were looking back at him before he nodded. "How about we just… hang out," 

"Hang out?" 

"Yeah. 'Cause I don't wanna move from here until I absolutely have to. So we can watch stuff on my laptop and stay in bed and Ubereats something fancy." When he failed to reply, you added, "You deserve a chill day." 

Bucky crossed the space and dramatically flopped down on the bed. "Just exchanged one bossy boots for another, huh?"

"Really pretty, well-meaning bossy boots, yeah!"

… 

Bucky was sitting in the window, patting a black cat you'd never seen in your entire life. He looked over when the front door closed behind you.

"Hey," he greeted, voice soft so not to startle the cat. 

"Who's your friend?" 

"Dunno… She was just out here when I got out the shower," 

"Right… Well, say goodbye and come inside. Got something for ya." 

Bucky left the window open, and the cat remained out on the fire escape. 

Inside, Bucky plonked himself on the sofa and watched you unpack things from the large paper bag you'd brought home. Bucky's bright eyes sparkled with curiosity and you could tell he could smell something unfamiliar. 

When everything was unpacked, you looked at Bucky.

"This is gonna sound so dumb. I know that. But just bear with me, okay?" Checking to see if Bucky was taking you seriously, you saw his focus was on you entirely. "I… I cannot even begin to comprehend what it must be like being you. It's… It's fucked. It's fucked even in the context of superheroes and aliens and all of it… I don't know how you do it and I know it's hard and I have no idea if you're… Like, okay? Or getting better? Or if being here is helping at all but I wanna help. I want to do something for you but I know I can't do anything like, proper. I can't… I don't know… So I thought maybe I can help in a different way. In a kind of shallow… ah, superficial way? So that's what this is." 

Bucky was trying to keep his expression neutral.

Bucky also didn't know how he continued to exist. Sometimes he thought it was because he felt he had to make up for what the Winter Soldier did. Save a life for each taken. Balance the books. Sometimes he thought maybe he was just superhumanly resilient. Maybe he was just more okay than made sense, and that was fine. And sometimes, like in those days he went missing, he thought he had no right being on Earth any more. 

"I… I don't know what _this_ is," Bucky started, motioning to the table of unidentifiable objects. "But you're already doin' more than enough. Me being here is helping. You give me space," and at that, you snorted, but he continued, not letting you redirect the conversation like he was so good at doing. "It's the only thing that I know helps. It helped in Wakanda. It's helping here." 

In the quiet of three seconds or so, you and Bucky watched each other, testing each other's honesty. You had to trust each other, which was hard. But it was happening. 

"Okay," you whispered when you grew too hot under his gaze. 

"What's all this then?" Bucky asked, sitting up straight and putting his best version of 'excitement' on his face. 

"This is… treat yo' self, self-care. You look after your insides, I'll look after your outsides," 

"My outsides?" he said, tone suggestive and eyebrow raised. 

It made you blush. 

"Skincare. Haircare. That kind of thing… It's from a store called Lush and I'm a bit obsessed. They invented the bath bomb!" 

Bucky set his expression to 'I'm giving you nothing' and crossed his arms across his chest. "Bath bomb?" 

"Yeah… They're these… things you put in the bath… It fizzes and makes it smell nice and look cool and is good for your skin and stuff. I didn't get one because we don't have a bath…" 

You thought you were losing him, but that's just what he wanted you to think. He was wildly interested in whatever it was you were trying to sell him. He didn't hate the idea of skincare, haircare, and whatever else was going on in those little black pots. He'd looked after himself so well in the 40s. His hair was always perfect. Wasn't caught dead with too much stubble. 

"I got like, a full routine for us to do together… If you want…" 

Bucky liked the pronouns you were using. _…we_ don't have a bath. …routine for _us._

"You're beautiful. You know that?" 

It caught you off guard. You hoped it was a rhetorical question. Blushing hard, you broke eye contact and looked at your Lush haul. 

"So, you're in?" you asked quietly, pretending to read one of the labels. 

"Yeah, doll. I'm in. Where's my fluffy robe?" 

Squealing in happiness, you jumped up. "No robes, but pyjamas, yeah?"

Bucky took the bathroom and you took the… bedroom/loungeroom/kitchen/rest of the apartment. Once together, you put on old episodes of Golden Girls and sat Bucky on the couch. He watched as you run about finding all the perfect bowls and towels. When you had the random-under-the-sink bucket filled with hot water, you returned to him. 

"Okay. First, we put on hair and face masks. I got this hair one 'cause it kinda smelt like chai latte." You opened the pot and let him smell it. 

"Never had a chai latte…" Was his only response. He read the pot, "H'Suan Wen Hua… Chinese,"

"You know Chinese?" 

"I know a lot of languages," he replied. 

"Hmm… Okay, well, do ya want me to do this or do you want to?" you asked. 

Bucky looked genuinely confused. "Do what?"

You hadn't wanted to assume Bucky would be cosmetic-clueless, but maybe it was better to just play spa. Let him sit back and relax and you do it all for him. The thought of that was both terrifying and exciting. 

"Sit back. Watch T.V. Lemme do this." 

And that's just what he did. 

You could literally see him relax into the sofa as you saturated his hair with the treatment, massaging it into his scalp then pinning it all on top of his head in a curl, secured with a clip. If you had been able to see his face, you would've seen him biting his bottom lip, holding in a bigger reaction to the feeling of your fingers raking through his hair.

For the longest time, he'd only known touch to equal pain or death. After that, it was the tentative hands of doctors and Steve's sometimes suffocating arms. But you… you were a whole different kettle of fish. You, he could get used to.

When you jumped onto the couch next to him, it looked like you startled him out of a daze. Bucky seemed happy. It made you happy. 

"Alright. Face mask. I got two different ones because the one I like kinda smells fucked but in a good one. Here, smell," you ordered, shoving an open pot of very garlicky Cosmetic Warrior under his nose. 

He frowned like a child. "Smells like what Sarah made Steve eat when he was sick," 

"That's cute. But yeah. It's strong. Try this one." 

Mask of Magnaminty was more his thing. Mint was a familiar smell. Bucky sat very still as you gently painted his face with the cool green goo. 

"You can smile," you whispered as you watched him try to conceal a grin. "Feels nice, huh?"

"It's… different," he agreed. 

It was quiet. Bucky watched the concentration on your face as you carefully finished the job. When you tapped his nose, complete with an audible "Boop!" he laughed. 

_Fuck_, his laugh was spectacular. Maybe it seemed golden because it was a rare thing. Maybe because the action made the corner of his sparkly blue eyes crinkle. Maybe just because you liked him. A lot. 

"'Kay. I'm just gonna go put mine on," you said motioning to the bathroom, "Then we can-"

"Do you want me to do yours?" Bucky interrupted. And holy fuck, how had you not thought of this as a possibility. Bucky had 1940s manners. Not even Hydra brainwashing could take that away from him. Of course he'd offer reciprocation.

"Ah… Sure. Yes." 

He took the pot from your hands and dipped his fingers into the goo. "Stevie's the artist, not me. But I'll do my best," Bucky promised. 

"I didn't know that," 

"Think all his best parts didn't make it into the history books," he continued. "Don't think some of them made it to 21st century…" 

"If I say something based on knowing you for not long, promise not to get salty at me?" 

"Salty a bad thing?" he asked, to which you nodded. "Okay…" 

"Maybe it's because like, he went rogue for you or whatever. And we got sold this fairytale best friends since birth story… But I kinda expected you guys to be… Nicer to each other." 

To his credit Bucky didn't stop painting your face. He was however, clearly unsettled by the statement. He thought for a second. "Yeah… It's… I don't know…" He shrugged. "We'll be alright. He knows I love him… Just handles things different. And he doesn't like being upset. Needs to fix everything. Fight the fight… I've never been like that. Not really… He was the one that wanted to go to war," 

"You didn't?" 

"Nah… conscripted." 

That fucked you up a little. Hydra wasn't the beginning of his lack of autonomy. He'd been owned by other people since he was basically a kid. 

"It's alright," Bucky said.

"Is it?" You'd asked so quietly for a second you thought maybe no noise had emerged from your mouth. There was a twitch in Bucky's expression that reassured you it had. 

He'd finished your face mask, putting the pot on the coffee table and wiping his hands on the same towel you had used. It was smeared with green and grey colours. Bucky's gaze focussed on it while he spoke. 

"I don't want to keep fighting… But if I don't, I don't know how I'm meant to make up for what I've done." 

Your nose began to tingle, the tell-tale warning sign of crying. Biting your lip and willing yourself to be calm you nodded, mostly to yourself. It would be a lie to say you understood, but you could genuinely see his sad logic. 

It took so long for you to say something that Bucky had already picked up the next tissue paper wrapped product in your line of Lush. He was rotating it in his hands, trying to work out what could be inside. 

"I.. I don't think you can… But not, not because… You just don't have to because it's not your fault. Like, you're not the… reason it all happened. So it doesn't make sense that you have to make up for it. That's not your responsibility. If anything someone has to make it up to you." 

Bucky looked at you, a small smile on his lips. He was grateful that you weren't changing the subject, shying away from a hard conversation. It wasn't like you were saying anything brand new to him. But it was nice to hear you say it. He believed you more than when the others had said it. It was a sentiment they all had to believe, because there was red on all their ledgers. Not yours. You had no stake in the claim. 

"If it's not my responsibilities, who gets that? It's on me, Y/N. I'm here. Capable. Gotta do it… Someone can make it up to me when I'm old." 

There was finality in the statement. That was that. So, you did what any good bartender would do. 

"Okay… Well… How about I pour you a whiskey and you tell me how you don't think 102 is old?" 

There was that laugh again. 

Two Foot Soak and Fancy Frees and whiskey fireballs later, Bucky was well and truly on his way to joining the Lush cult. He looked ridiculous, sitting there covered in product and trying to drink while not getting face mask on the glass. After picking Yog Nog shower gel over Snow Fairy, he disappeared into the bathroom to wash himself clean. 

When you were both showered and back in pyjamas, you showed him how to do the towel-hair-twist things that he claimed only women knew how to do. "That's sexist," you teased. And when he did it first go, you suspected he had known all along. 

"All that's left is body lotion," 

"Sleepy," he read, taking the pot from you. Opening it, he considered the scent. "Lavender," 

"You're good at this," 

"Everyone knows the smell of lavender,"

"Whatever," you said with a shrug, reaching out to scoop some of the lotion up. 

Bucky watched you for a second, before snapping out of the moment. Probably not the coolest thing to do - watch a girl cover herself in lotion. Unless you wanted him to watch. If you did - he would have complied. 

Watching Bucky out the corner of your eye, you tried not to laugh. He could tell. 

"What?" he sighed. "What am I doing now?" 

"Nothing. It's just… Winter Solider covering himself in lavender scented body lotion… It's a mood." 

Bucky frowned, not sure exactly what you meant. He did know you were happy. 

…

After the self-care session, you and Bucky had fallen asleep on the sofa. It wasn't like in the movies where bodies overlapped and comfortable sleep was found. Bucky was sat upright, head rolled back into an awkward position that would have almost definitely caused an ache by morning. Even for a super soldier. You were on the opposite end, curled up with your feet pressed into Bucky. A siren somewhere outside woke Bucky around three in the morning. He carried you to bed, tucking you in and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. You didn't stir at all. 

Each night thereafter you let yourself drift off on the sofa, enjoying the proximity to Bucky and knowing you'd wake up in bed. It was on the cusp of being routine until one particularly stormy night. Wind had been howling for hours, catching somewhere in a drain or gutter just outside the windows. It caused a high pitched whistle that kept pulling you from sleep. 

As Bucky laid you in bed, you woke, confused for only a moment. 

"Is it like that every time there's a storm?" Bucky whispered through the darkness of the room. You made a grumbling sound, which Bucky correctly interpreted as a yes. "I'll fix it tomorrow,"

"Wait," you grumbled a little more clearly. "Stop sleepin' on th' couch. Come 'ere." You had your hand around Bucky's wrist and were pulling. There was no way you'd be strong enough to actually pull him onto the bed, but there was no way Bucky was going to say no either. 

He crawled under the covers with you, trying to decode what it meant that he was in your bed. Meanwhile, you were wide awake trying to work out if he was buying your sleepy mumbling. 

Which was worse, the tension of the want to wriggle back into him, let him curl his arms around you and keep you safe, or the anxiety produced by the thought of rejection? At what moment had Bucky turned from customer to friend? From friend to something else? Had those lines ever existed, or did Bucky's unreal history smash any chance of social normalities in his future? Did the carnage leave only constant unknowns and unmapped territory in its wake? Why did he always smell so goddamn _good?_

…

It was the start of June when Bucky Barnes had walked into a dusty bar seeking solace. It was the start of August when he disappeared into the night, not planning on returning. Alas, Captain America. So, it was almost four months ago he found refuge in the two-room apartment of one bartender. That brought him all the way up to December. Christmas. 

"S'not what it used to be," Bucky grumbled from where he was sitting on the sofa, socked feet on the coffee table. 

"But you didn't have my eggnog in the 40s," you countered. 

Bucky narrowed his eyes and hid a smile with another sip from the mug in his hands. God, he loved your eggnog. He loved a lot of things about you, but he kept that to himself. He said nothing and continued to watch you decorate the small, plastic Christmas tree you'd set up in the corner of the room. 

"You're not gonna help?" you asked. 

"You're doing fine, darlin'. I'll tell you if you miss a spot," 

"You're a little fuck, you know that?" 

"Mmm. Been told once or twice." 

You snorted and got back to your tinsel. 

Now, you weren't a psychologist and you didn't know shit about the deep trauma Bucky had experienced and still lived with, but you felt he was definitely in some early stage of recovery. The bed you occupied and the sofa bed he did were close enough that you could hear the whimpers of nightmares. Mornings after, you could pretend you hadn't heard. But, when he shared your bed, which he often did, there could be no ignoring the fact that you _knew_. However, the nightmares had lessened over the past two months. He made more jokes. He checked the windows less. He went over to Stark Tower a lot to keep training. You even suspected he'd made a friend in Sam Wilson. 

"Would it be weird if I got Steve a Christmas present?" you asked, standing back from the tree and looking at your masterpiece. 

"He'd probably cry," 

"What? Why?" 

"Neither of us got much as kids… Everything's special. Don't think he's grown out of that," Bucky explained, trying to sound casual but the admiration for Steve was too thick in his words for that. "What are ya gonna get him?"

"Not telling you. You'll go snitch. You tell him _everything_," you accuse, spinning on your heels to point a finger. He made a face that said 'yeah, that's valid.' Smiling, you moved to plug the fairy lights into the electrical outlet. "Should we invite him over?" 

By the time you'd stood, marvelled at your sparkling beautiful tree, taken a photo of it, then turned back to Bucky, you saw he had his deep-in-thought face on. It was his serious face, reserved for serious things. You put your phone down and sat next to him, nudging your way to curl up under his arm that hooked over the back of the sofa. 

"Talk," you said softly. 

"This is your house… so you should do what you want…" 

"But?" 

"I don't know… I… Nothing bad's happened here, you know? Nobody even knows where _here_ is. It's… safe… from everything else," Bucky said, speaking slowly, carefully. There was a vulnerability in his words that made your heart ache. 

"Yeah. It is. Okay. That's okay. We can keep it like that… Our little safe space, huh?" 

Bucky nodded, then turned to look at you. God, he was so soft. He smiled, turning you into a pool of feelings. 

"Thank you," he said, probably not meaning to whisper it. 

You just nodded once and looked back at him. How could anyone have ever wanted to hurt him? How could they fucking touch him? 

Before you could even work out who moved first, your foreheads were pressed softly to each other's and he'd wrapped you up in his arms. Bucky often smelt like Lush shampoo you'd bought him that he referred to as the "green jellybean" shampoo. And he always smelt like mint toothpaste because he brushed his teeth multiple times a day, citing a lack of access to such good oral hygiene supplies in the 40s as the cause. Under all that was his own scent, that unique humanness everyone has. Bucky's was sweet and warm and it contrasted against the mint much like the coolness of vibranium pressed to skin. 

You knew him. You knew he wouldn't go where you'd not invited him. 

As softly as you could control yourself, you tilted your head up and kissed your lips to Bucky's. A second. Two. He kissed back. His first kiss since 1945. And for the first time since coming out of Hydra brainwashing in 2014, Bucky Barnes was so fucking happy to be alive. 

… 

"I've just realised the best reason for this happening here instead of at ours," you said as you climbed the stairs to Steve's apartment. Bucky hummed a response from in front of you. "We don't have to do any dishes," 

"You don't _do_ dishes anyway," he replied, not trying to be funny but simply stating a fact. 

"Killin' my Christmas joy, Barnes," 

"Reckon I was the one bringing the joy," he said, reaching out to gently touch the dress you were in. 

Bucky banished you to the small bathroom while he wrapped your Christmas gifts the day before, but as you emerged he seemed perplexed. "Feel like maybe you should have this one now," he'd said, then handed it over. The dress was beautiful, probably very expensive and new despite looking quite vintage in style. "Thought maybe you'd wanna wear it to Steve's tomorrow?" Yes. Yes, you fucking did. 

When he saw you in it, saw how it fit you and how you glowed, Bucky felt validated and like all his insides were made of goo. Walking up the stairs to Steve's, he felt the same. Maybe worse. _Oh, God,_ maybe like the first time he'd brought home a girl to meet his family. Bucky tried to distract himself from… you, by counting stairs and taking in his surroundings in detail. 

Steve's apartment block was very unassuming. Nobody would guess Captain America lived there. Of course, the other residents had seen him around, shock eventually giving way to acceptance. As you arrived at his door, you could smell and hear all the other Christmas Eve parties happening on his floor. 

"Door's unlocked!" Steve called from inside at the sound of your knocking. 

Pointedly, Bucky locked the door behind him when he came inside, then put the brightly wrapped gifts on the small table beside the coat rack. Steve was far too busy hugging you tightly to notice that though. 

"Y/N! You look beautiful!" 

"Yeah? Thank you! Guess where this came from," you quizzed, spinning on the spot to make your dress twirl. 

"Bucky?" Steve guessed too quickly. 

You pouted, annoyed the game was over. Looking over at Bucky you asked, "Did you tell him?"

"He didn't tell me," Steve said. "That's just a very Bucky dress," 

"You're right. He does also look spectacular in it," you agreed, laughing.

The night went on, and it came as no surprise that Steve was an excellent cook. Although he dismissed compliments, citing Wanda Maximoff for recipes, he seemed to almost buzz at how much food you and Bucky consumed. When it was time for presents, you took a bowl of paprika mashed potato with you to the couch. 

"Wait… I thought you were moving these to get to our gifts," you said confused, pointing to the pile on the coffee table. 

"I like Christmas," Steve replied, shrugging. 

Each carefully wrapped box had a sticker tag on it, the handwriting beautiful. Each one with your name on it looked like typed font it was so perfectly replicated. Bucky's, however, all had variations of his name. Bucky. Buck. Buckaroo. Jerk. Punk. 

"I wanna go first," Bucky announced, clearly annoying the scene Steve had playing out in his head. "Here," he said, throwing a box at Steve. Obviously, he caught it.

Steve was immediately suspicious of Bucky's enthusiasm. He did his best not to give his best friend the satisfaction he so badly sought. Simply, Steve rolled his eyes when he unwrapped the ridiculous Captain America action figure. 

"See, if you press here, he says things!" Bucky explained, reaching over the coffee table to press the button. 

The action lit up and a recorded voice proudly announced, "Avengers, assemble!" 

Bucky started to cackle. Steve held in a grin, sucking in his bottom lip to bite it between his teeth. 

"That's not even your voice," you noted. 

Steve pressed the button again. The toy said, "Freedom and justice for all!" 

Bucky was absolutely beside himself. 

"I… don't think I've ever said that," Steve said, composing himself. "Actually, Buck, before you get too proud, here." Steve handed Bucky a gift. It stopped Bucky in his tracks. He narrowed his eyes at his friend and began to slowly unwrap it. "If I'm a joke, buddy, so are you," Steve said in the best anti-Captain America tone he could. 

Bucky held up the teddy bear. The Bucky bear. Unlike Steve and the action figure, Bucky didn't seem embarrassed by the toy. 

"Didn't know they still make these," he said slyly. Bucky knew for a fact they did not make them. He'd gone looking out of interest. Unless Steve had found a mint condition, not at all aged bear, which was incredibly unlikely, it meant he had one especially made. 

"If you don't want him, I'll have him," you said, reaching out for the teddy with grabby hands. Bucky (the human) smiled as you hugged Bucky (the bear) to your chest. 

"That backfired, didn't it?" he grinned across to Steve. 

Steve shook his head. "Here, punk. Got you these too." 

Steve had bought Bucky three more gifts. One of the past, one of the present, and one of the future. The past was a vintage record player, which momentarily sent Bucky into a hazy daydream. To use in the here and now - a top of the range knife sharpener. The future was the box set of Gadget Man. You wondered if Steve knew how weird Richard Ayoade was. 

He wasn't done; Bucky hadn't been kidding about the whole 'had nothing growing up = now overdoes gifting' thing. Steve presented you with what you could only assume was a _very_ expensive fancy decanter, the most beautiful antique brooch, and a book about the women of WWII. "That's the only one Peg had ever approved of," Steve said.

"You remember everything, huh?" you replied. All those months ago, waiting for Bucky to wake, Steve had told you about Peggy Carter and all the other women he'd met in the war. He'd recalled how enraptured you were. 

Lucky last was a pair of matching ugg boots for you and Bucky. Buck pulled his on immediately, loving the feeling of his wriggling toes in the softness. 

"Okay, so you moonlight as Santa. Cool," you laughed when Steve was finally done. 

Steve grinned with pride. 

"Our turn. This one is from me," you said, handing two parcels to Steve. "Bucky told me about how you used to draw. Reckon you both need some… non-combat hobbies." 

Steve unwrapped the illustrator's pencils and drawing pads. "Y/N, these are beautiful… It's really thoughtful. I'll draw you something," 

"Draw me," Bucky chimed in. 

"She's already unlucky enough to see you every day, Buck. Doesn't need your face on her wall," Steve replied casually, nonchalantly. 

You adored when Steve and Bucky were soft around each other, to each other, but fuck it was fun when they'd bicker like an old married couple. The swings they took at each other were always held back with love. 

"Christ," Bucky laughed. "Anyway, you interrupted me. I wasn't finished. Here," he said, tossing Steve another gift. 

A new leather jacket ("…faux leather, Steve, gotta get with it…"), some very specific thing for Steve's bike that you did not understand, and a fondue set. You also did not understand that. 

"Apparently…" Bucky started, leaning back on the sofa looking smug as fuck. "…Peggy told Sharon. Funny stories from Aunt Peg's past and all that… Sharon told Sam. Sam told me. So, ah… fondue." 

Steve said nothing. 

"I don't get it," 

"Why are you like this?" Steve asked Bucky. 

… 

The mewing sounds of a black cat woke you early on Christmas morning. Bucky sometimes opened the window when he got up, left a little dish of milk out on the fire escape for the stray. It didn't seemed cagey, like it was used to being inside the apartment. 

Bucky emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and smiling happily at you and the cat. "Mornin'," he greeted, reaching down to pat the cat's back, just where its tail began. The cat shimmed happily. 

"Are you talking to her or me?"

"I mean… Both?"

You shook your head at him while he went about making coffee. The cat followed him, curling around his ankles like she'd been his best friend forever. 

"What's her name?" 

"Becca."

You nodded, watching the cat. "So, are you gonna come wish me a happy Christmas?" you asked Bucky when he remained focused on the cat, then on pulling bowls and pans from the kitchen cupboards. 

"How 'bout you come _here_ and wish _me_ a happy Christmas. Since I'm about to make you special pancakes," 

"Special pancakes?!" you repeated, quickly getting out of bed and slipping your feet into closest pair of ugg boots. Not yours. Bucky snorted as he watched you cross the apartment walking like a little kid in their mother's high heels. When you got to him, he opened his arms and pulled you in close. "What makes them special?"

"If they work, they're gonna be eggnog flavoured… Maybe," he answered, leaving the hug to begin cooking. 

After eggnog pancakes and The Grinch, you both pulled out your Christmas gifts. 

"Did you actually go into a Lush store?!" you squeaked, quickly taking the lid off the Merry and Bright giftbox. 

Bucky sighed. "Yeah… I did… Had to get something without the bath stuff in it," he told you. 

The image of Bucky Barnes walking into a Lush store and asking for a giftbox for you was all a little too much. The signature smell of the store was in the air and Bucky looked relieved. 

"I love it. It's perfect. Thank you," you said softly, hugging him. 

It was his turn. Bucky opened the small box, held up the contents. You'd never seen confusion so perfectly executed in expression before. The pink cat collar looked especially tiny hanging from his finger. 

"Notice anything different about Becca?" you asked then. 

Bucky immediately started to look around for the cat. She came when he called, and he picked her up. Still confused. 

"See that little tattoo in her ear? Means she's yours. Took her to the vet to see if she was microchipped or anything. But she wasn't. She was homeless, and now she's not. She's wormed and flead and registered to us. Turns out she's young too. Just a bit of a big boi, probably all that milk you've been giving her,"

"Y/N... I..." But he didn't know what to say, so he turned to the cat. "Did ya hear that, Bec? You don't have to sneak ya in anymore."

Bucky put her new collar on while you told him that he'd have to take her to her appointment the following week; she needed to be desexed. And, that you had to give her a name at the vet. "I don't know if we can change it now... Didn't want to ruin the surprise, so I just did it. But it's not like it says Bucky on your birth certificate, so…" 

"What did you call her?" 

"Whiskey,"

"Whiskey… Of course you did. How about I make us some tea then, before you get ready for work? Do a toast to Whiskey?" 

…

"Most places are closed Christmas," Bucky stated like you didn't already know that fact. 

"Yeah… But I don't know, we open every year and the regulars come. I don't know where they'd go if we weren't open," you explained, pulling your boots on. 

"I'll come with you," he said then, quickly dragging himself off the sofa and looking around for something to wear. No real cleaning had taken place in a couple of days. The Christmas spirit was well and truly alive in the form of loose bits of tinsel and stray gift bows. Clothes were scattered about too, and empty shopping bags. You were surprised Bucky hadn't freaked out about the mess. 

"You can if ya want, but you don't have to. Don't feel obligated or anything." 

Bucky was dressed and at the door before you'd finished with your laces. His beauty was effortless. 

"I don't," he reassured, tying his hair up in a bun. 

As you and Bucky turned the corner onto the bar's street, you could see a couple of people leaning against the old building. Out of instinct, Bucky's grip on your hand tightened and he walked a little closer to you. Approaching the bar, you recognised Dave and another regular. "Hey, guys," you greeted them, hugging them before opening the bar and letting everyone in. 

Like it was a normal day, the tables filled with people and the jukebox was set to bad 70s and 80s rock and country. You poured out a free round of beer and ordered a couple pizzas for the men that had only your bar to call home. 

Once everyone was settled, you wandered back over to Bucky, who was residing in his usual place. 

"What's a boy like you doing in a place like this?" you asked, grinning and resting on the bar. 

"Oh, you know. Good service. Think I might ask the doll that works 'ere out," he replied, trademark Barnes. 

It made you laugh. Bucky leaned across and kissed you gently.

"So what will it be? Whiskey? Oh, fireball! For Christmas?" 

Bucky made a face he couldn't hide fast enough. "Don't take this the wrong way, darlin', but… prefer your eggnog,"

"I've made you fireballs before at home?" 

He tried to hide a smile. "How 'bout that old bottle. Still floating around?" 

The 1940 bottle of whiskey. In the wake of Bucky's abrupt disappearance all those months ago, you'd hidden the bottle behind stacks of till rolls and bags of straws. It did nothing but remind you of Bucky, which in turn caused nothing but heartache. In all honesty, you'd forgotten about it until the moment he'd asked for it. 

"Not drinking with me?" he asked when you only poured one glass. 

"Buck, you know I love you, but I'm just not drinking that shit ever again." 

He watched you for a second, studied your face to see if you were going to take it back or laugh like it was a joke. But you didn't do either of those things. Rather, you just smiled. Gentle but sly. Knowing. 

You kinda loved him from the get go. 

"Think I've been waitin' eighty years for you," Bucky said, his voice shaky, like the words had slipped from the deep, pure recesses of his mind without filter. 

"Merry Christmas, James Buchanan Barnes. Glad you're here," you replied, holding your can of Dr Pepper up to tap against his glass of whisky in a toast. 

"Merry Christmas, darling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and comments! They honestly mean the whole fucking world and are INCREDIBLY motivating for a writer! xo Rhi


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